


Master of the Hunt

by ravenwolf2007



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Adept - Katherine Kurtz & Deborah Turner Harris
Genre: Arthurian Elements, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Dark Magic, F/F, F/M, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Morally Grey Charlus Potter, Nobility, Paganism, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Lives, Sirius Black Lives, The Deathly Hallows, The House of Peverell, The House of Potter, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, The Olde Ways, The Potters, Time Travel, Wizarding Nobility, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions, Worldbuilding, expanded Wizengamot, olde magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 17:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenwolf2007/pseuds/ravenwolf2007
Summary: In 1979, the Potter family suffered unspeakable tragedy as their home is attacked and burned to the ground by the militant forces of Lord Voldemort, leaving a grieving young Heir alone to bear the burden of carrying the future of the family forward.Time went on, but unbeknownst to all but a select few, the head of the Potter family...survived.Now years later, he finds himself navigating a changed world, banding with his old allies to correct the egregious wrongs committed against his family and gathering the broken fragments of his House back together in the wake of the Dark Lord's return.The Master of the Hunt has risen from the shadows...and the game is afoot.





	Master of the Hunt

**o0o0o0o **

**June 21, 1989**

**Basel, Switzerland**

As the solemn bells of the local parish cathedral began to sound, announcing the dawn of the midnight hour, the waves of sound masked the 'crack' that accompanied a shift in the air as a blur instantaneously materialized into the form of a tall man of advanced age, hair almost snow-white save for small patches of darker grey and tufts of black scattered upon his head. His dark skin bore signs of weathered age, but his chocolate brown eyes glimmered with strength and he stood straight-backed and proud, striding without any visible sign of weakness as so often afflicted similar men of his age.

As he stalked through the empty street, the old man appeared to draw shadows to him. With each step, the air seemed to darken. Streetlights dimmed and flickered as he passed by silently, moving with preternatural grace as he neared his destination five blocks away from the cathedral.

To the unsuspecting individual, particularly a Muggle, the abandoned storefront might seem like a curious place to travel to at midnight. The storefront wasn't particularly big, but it was neat and as clean as an abandoned space could possibly be when neglected for so long. As he was wont to do, the dark skinned man peered through the window to inspect the interior, the way a curious bystander might do so on any given day. As he took note of the desolate condition that was presented to the eye, he smiled faintly to himself. While sparse and in some measure of order, a heavy layer of dirt and grime lay like snow upon every surface of the interior storefront. It was clearly in disuse, which pleased him. Had he been a typical Muggle with no business peeping into the abandoned building, all would appear as it should.

However, he was not a Muggle, ignorant of the inherent and subtle energies suffusing the ground that he walked upon, the moisture that materialized through rain or snow, or even the very air that he breathed.

He was Omir Shafiq, Paterfamilias of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Shafiq, a wizard and Lord Regnant of the Wizengamot of Great Britain and its Dependencies or as it was known in ancient times, Albion. As such this building, apparently untouched for over sixteen years held far more than the average mortal would ever dare to imagine.

Stepping back from his inspection of the intricate layers of Muggle repelling charms, notice-me-not spells, glamours, and the anchoring ritual that made this particular location Unplottable for most wizards and witches, the aged wizard stepped over to the grimy looking metal door and withdrawing a lengthy and highly polished beech wand, its reddish-brown grain seeming to glow to his inner sight and almost hum audibly as he marshaled his not-inconsiderable energies. Laying the tapered tip of his wand to the metallic door, he breathed and let his energy flow through the wand. Not enough to attract any undue attention in the middle of the Swiss town certainly, but just enough to trigger the warding mechanism that would allow him and a very select few entrance into the building. Slowly, as if traced by an invisible hand, a series of fiery lines and loops began to form upon the metallic surface. As the wizard watched intently, a series of three circles formed one after another. A blaze of fire soon materialized as a straight arrow with a feather bound to it's side while another flare materialized as a crooked line, twining sinuously as it formed the body of a serpent with majestic ram-like horns and sly, cunning eyes, an interlocking pentagram at the serpent's crown and yet another flare formed into a bent wood that branched out, boasting three unique flowers and four leaves in between them. Above each image was a glowing circular dot, the three forming the sacred sigil of the ancient druidic representation for _awen _\- sacred inspiration.

The old man's eyes closed as briefly, he felt a foreign intelligence lick at his aura as it identified him as either a threat or as duly authorized to enter the shrouded premises. In moments, the sensation subsided and the metal door appeared to— ripple. Breathing out, the man stepped forward and was swallowed up by the suddenly porous surface that had only seconds before been hard and unyielding.

As his form disappeared through the enchanted entrance, the bells tolled one final time before fading into the night sky. The dimmed streetlamps brightened once again and the shadows retreated. As far as any observer might be concerned, all was quiet. All was still.

Having stepped through through the protections he had erected so many years ago, Lord Shafiq was greeted by a winding path of stairs hewn out of grim stone, the equally stony wall bare save for iron sconces affixed to the walls as the stairs wound in a spiral, widdershin pattern. As he walked briskly down the spiraling stairs, a pale azure flame burst into being as he passed each mounted sconce. The light afforded by the torches spilled all about the silent wizard as he wound his way down towards the bottom of the stairs. As he descended, he considered the potentially explosive communication he had received hours before from one of his most trusted associates and brother-at-arms, a member of a esoteric fellowship that he had committed himself to for nearly fifty years, one of the few organized bodies maintaining the ancient traditions and beliefs that were once commonplace to all of witch and wizardkind.

As one of the oldest living members of the Darkwood Grove, Omir had witnessed sublime manifestations of ancient magic and divine encounters throughout the half-century that he had proudly served as an Initiate of the Hidden Mysteries. He had also witnessed tragic, heart rending events that plagued their ancient fraternity and the wizarding world at large. He had been involved in the Great War that had coincided with the Muggle international conflicts that came to be known as World War I and World War II. He had seen brothers and sisters butchered by those magical Initiates who elected to court Chaos and the Magic Anathema in their quest for dominance over the magical and mundane worlds. He had buried precious friends and mourned lovers ripped from the Middle-world too soon. However, the tragedy that weighed heaviest upon him in all of the years of his association with the Grove was the near death and incapacitation of the current Master of their Grove...his oldest and dearest friend and colleague.

It was nearly sixteen years ago that his dear friend had fallen prey to the extremely virulent magical disease known as the Dragonpox. While incredible potent magically, he and his noble wife were of advanced age which combined with his vast reservoir of magical energy rendered him particularly vulnerable to the magical contagion. Both were stricken with it, but while his wife soon rallied with several doses of the approved potion for the treatment of the pox, his friend's afflicted body merely burnt up the potion, nearly dying due to the almost lethal doses of the Gorsemoor Cure that was spelled into his system by the Medi-Witches and Wizards of St. Mungos.

The outlook being grim, Omir had led the efforts of their Grove to synthesize an improved potion based in part off of the Gorsemoor Cure, but amplified by delving into the long obscured and forgotten fragmented lore of Olde Magic, found in the snippets of mouldering grimoires and clay tablets. In consultation with the heirs of the Grove Master, the Grove had secured the building that he was traversing even now, crafting the cavernous rooms that would serve as the site for their leader's rehabilitation and hopeful recovery.

At the time, fearing for their leader's life, Omir with the approval of his wife prepared and administered the Draught of Living Death in order to place her afflicted husband in a deep suspended animation. The entire family save for their nephew who was indisposed on business of his own gathered at the family manor to hold vigil over the stricken wizard. It was then, just after he had succumbed to the effects of the Draught, that an unexpected tragedy occurred, when Death Eaters, the shock troops of the wizard styling himself 'Lord Voldemort' stormed the grounds, blasting through the wards with the aid of their Master, widely hailed as the most powerful dark wizard that Britain had seen in over a hundred years.

Omir closed his eyes briefly, overtaken by the tragic outcome of that unexpected invasion. He had urged the family members to flee, but much like their Paterfamilias, they refused to bow to the deluge of anarchy and ruinous corruption, but elected to stand their ground and fight. Even his friend's wife, barely recovered from her own bout with the dragon pox elected to support her loved ones and fight, sparing thought however for her husband as she instructed their head house-elf and a companion to accompany Omir and their Master to Switzerland where he could be hidden and treated in peace. They had left with much protesting, but could do little more than give way to the indomitable will of the matriarch of the family. It was a decision that haunted Omir to this day, as upon his return to the Manor, he found himself Apparating into a burnt husk. Everything had been burnt to ashes, most likely by Fiendfyre, as the complex wards permeating the Manor had been programmed to neutralize any attempts to set fire to the estate. Blackened masonry and slagged metal was all that remained of the family home of his friend. As for the Manor's defenders...their bodies were equally burnt and blackened though careful investigation revealed that all had been subjected to the Killing Curse.

Since then, his friend in accordance with the wishes of his late wife had been declared deceased although Omir made sure to block the paperwork from being filed officially in the Ministry. Of the small, but prosperous family, only his younger brother's son survived. He had continued to pursue his own association with a secret Order that opposed the depredations of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, going on to become a celebrated and deadly Hit-Wizard working in conjunction with the Auror Office until just about two years later, when the young heir and his wife lost their lives in a fatal confrontation with the infamous Dark Lord, shortly before Voldemort's sudden disappearance and apparent demise at the hands allegedly of the child feted throughout the territory of Britain and Ireland as the Boy-Who-Lived.

Over the next decade, Omir shunted much of the day to day responsibilities of his House to his proxy and great-grand niece, Salmira Shafiq including representation within the Wizengamot, choosing to focus on shepherding the Grove as he swore to do when assuming the privilege of being named the Man In Black. As the Grove continued to advance and propogate the Olde Ways within Britain, Omir doubled down with close allies and experts in the field of Potions as well as more esoteric disciplines to create a potion that would neutralize the virus that powered the pox.

Dozens of experiments had been conducted on their leader, with varying results. However over the past six months, steady improvement had been detected and Omir now found himself anticipating what the possible news from the wizard currently treating their Grove Master could be. He hardly dared to hope that the news might be encouraging. It had been so long since appreciable developments had come about with regards to a effective cure.

Stepping off of the stairs, the Wizengamot Lord approached the iron-wrought doors that barred the way into the chamber where the Darkwood Grove's leader lay in suspended repose, going on nigh ten years. Taking a deep, fortifying breath for the nerves that seemed to be prickling all of a sudden, Omir tapped his wand three times on the doors. Upon the third tap, once more the emblem of their Grove- the Three Pathways of the Darkwood glimmered upon the iron doors before they parted, admitting Omir into the chamber. As Omir entered the room, he was greeted by the sight of the house-elves of his old friend rushing towards him, eyes wide with excitment as they bowed in greeting.

"Master Omir!" squeaked the younger of the two house-elves, Dottie. "There is being a change! We's been ordered to escort Master to Master Antinous at once!"

The elder of the elves nodded in confirmation of the younger's words, but did not add anything more. Melenius was quite taciturn for a house-elf, speaking very little but with an uncanny ability to anticipate his master and mistress' needs.

A frisson of anticipation bubbled within Omir's chest, but he did not verbalize his emotions or thoughts. Nodding regally at the two elves, he undid the clasp of his velvet outer robe and handed it to Melenius, who magically sent it to the appropriate space.

"Then let us be off," he said as lightly as possible. "Antinous will no doubt be anxious to render his latest diagnosis."

Together, the three sentients made their way past the cordoned off Potions laboratory that the Grove utilized in their efforts to awaken their stricken leader and headed towards the center of the chamber where Omir found the young, but extraordinarily skilled Potions Master and fellow member of their fellowship, a remarkable young wizard who had experienced his own brush with death and prolonged stasis before awakening from his enchanted slumber and joining their Grove. Once, he had possessed a name that bespoke the ancient paternal lineage from which he descended, but now he was acknowledged as Antinous Raeburn.

The youthful wizard wore dark fitted robes that clung to his muscular form. His pale, patrician features and long dark hair were strikingly reminiscent of another skilled and celebrated Potions prodigy who had disappointingly elected to ensconce himself within the boundaries of academia though he bore no relation to the youth before him, but his sharp grey eyes recalled the eyes of a very particular family, some of whom had been cautious acquaintances in the past, others who had become enemies of the Grove.

When the younger wizard saw Omir walk in with the house elves, he rose from the contraption that he was tinkering with, a delivery system for the potions developed similar to what the Muggles called an IV drip, however rather than a bag with clear fluid on a metal pole, Antinous had devised thin lines of pure gold tipped with a copper needle that transmitted the necessary fluids to their Grove Master's form to prevent him from becoming emaciated as well as the regimen of potions that had been crafted over the years to combat the magical disease. Four copper intravenous needles were embedded in the patient's wrists and either side of his neck, the gold tubes connected to a rune engraved basin, filled with an off-white potion that steamed into the air. Omir waved off Antinous as he bowed in respect towards him and reaching his side, grasped his hand in greeting.

"My young friend," remarked Omir with a small smile. "I see that you have been quite busy and possibly have news of some import to share?"

He didn't dare to posit what that potential news might be, but he stiffened with anticipation as Antinous' lips broke into a slow smile. The boy's normally stormy grey eyes fairly glowed with anticipation and satisfaction.

"Lord Shafiq," he replied. "The potion is finished. The final steps for it to achieve its peak potency were completed an hour ago. I merely needed it to cool for a bit, but now, at last we can wake him up. It's time, sir."

Omir felt a cold thrill pass through him at the bald announcement.

"What are the changes?" he managed to ask, more or less composed.

"Dragon's blood," replied the younger wizard. He gazed at the steam rising from the containment basin for the potion. "From the same species that it is posited passed on the sickness in the first place. Often if dealing with venom, a method of healing might be to synthesize an andidote from a creature carrying the venom itself. The elixirs that we developed to help ensure that as much of his atrophied muscles can be strengthened and repaired as possible. Wiggenweld of course, to counteract the Draught of Living Death. A few rare ingredients to arrest the progress of the virus and neutralize it. The final ingredient is energy raised by evoking the blessings of Cainte* infused into nine drops of unicorn's blood, willingly given."

Omir's eyebrows rose in unabashed astonishment.

"Unicorn's blood?" he repeated dumbly.

"Unicorn's blood," confirmed the younger wizard.

"How?" demanded Omir.

He watched as Antinous's grey eyes grew stormy in remembrance as he recalled the circumstances that enabled him to gain the coveted and extraordinarily rare substance. Almost unconsciously, the younger wizard's hand lifted towards his temple. As he did so, Omir's eyes sharpened and then widened as he took in the long jagged scar that now adorned the side of Antinous' face, running down his neck and beneath the concealment of his clothing. It was clear that such a precious gift had been dearly purchased. Though the scar was healed, it was still very visible.

"Antinous, child. I'm—"

"It is of no consequence," snapped Antinous tersely. "I did what I must. It is my duty. And my privilege. He risked much for me once. I'm simply repaying him back."

Omir fell silent at that, recognizing the determination and pride in the tones of the younger wizard's voice. It would not do to attempt to comfort him, as it was clearly a mark of pride that he bore resolutely. He would honor that committment. He turned instead to the visage of his sleeping friend. His skin had lost the greenish tinge and purplish bruising that often marred the skin of those afflicted with the pox. He noted that the prolonged infusions had evidently caused his hair to fall out. Where once was a messy thatch of thick hair, a trait shared by all members of his family (and the inspiration behind the Sleekeazy Products that his friend invented in the 50s), his cranium was smooth and completely bare. He could see a faint light emanating from within his body, no doubt an effect of the delivery system for the potion that Antinous had created.

"And the potion?" he inquired tremulously, raw emotion battling with his efforts to infuse his being with calm. At his side he could feel the house-elves trembling with either fear or anticipation, he couldn't rightly tell. "Is it working?"

Antinous' brow furrowed as he began to cast several obscure diagnostic spells in the air above the unconscious wizard they all hoped to see successfully revived. He scrutinized the sigils and runes that materialized closely for several long moments, marked by the pregnant weight of expectation and barely constrained fear. Finally however, he dispelled the markings and looked up as he gazed directly at Omir. His grey eyes glittered with fierce triumph.

"It is working," he confirmed, "based on the projected diagnosis, the virus should be completely neutralized in a matter of hours. A time delay was placed on the properties of the ingredients linked to Wiggenweld Potion. Once the virus has been fully neutralized, he should awaken from the effects of the Draught."

Omir's fists clenched at his side as a fierce joy sang through his veins. It was done. At last, after ten years of constant experimentation, near fatal complications and befuddling as well as arcane research and resultant disappointment, his friend...the brother of his soul would recover. At last, the Darkwood Grove would become whole.

Silently, he observed as Antinous tapped the rune engraved basin in a complicated pattern, each engraved rune lighting up in a riot of color, all the while murmuring what was assuredly an incantation of some kind, though Omir could not catch the words. His skin prickled as a invisible pulse resonated throughout the compass that had been laid by the Grove in efforts to channel healing energies to stave off the progression of the pox and hold their chief in stasis. Before their eyes, the steaming not quite white potion began to sink as it was funneled through the gold-wrought tubes and traveled down its sinuous length to the opening provided by the intravenous needles embedded in the patient's skin. A nearly an hour passed before the basin was completely emptied. As Omir watched in painful anticipation, his old friend's veins lit up with a fiery gleam as the potion began to take effect and spread through the bloodstream. As more and more of his body began to glimmer with the burning lines, traveling towards the extremities of his body and throughout his face and head, Omir bowed his head and sent up silent prayers to the Patrons that they honored in their Grove. _Let it be the potion that will finally complete this torturous process_, he prayed. _By the Three Realms, let it be..._

Dottie gasped aloud in distress when without warning, her Master's body seized up and began to tremble and twitch uncontrollably.

"Yous is killing him!" bawled the soft-hearted house-elf, as she wringed her ears in distress. "Yous is killing my poor Master! Oh! He is being consumed by the Dragons Blood he is!"

She made as if to lurch towards Antinous, but her movement was impeded by Melenius, who scowled so fiercely that even Omir had to step back warily.

"Foolish Dottie!" croaked the elderly house-elf. "Yous is not interrupting the healing of the Master! Be still!"

Cowed, Dottie sniffled and retreated to her place next to Omir who turned back to the convulsing body of his friend. Antinous appeared strained, but was blessedly not visibly panicked as he reinforced cushioning charms about the sickbed to avert any potential injury arising from the man. He murmured silently to himself as he ran his wand above the body and ran diagnostic spells.

Omir could do nothing more than watch until after several minutes, his friend's body stilled abruptly. Anxiously, Omir glanced from his friend to Antinous. What had happened?

He opened his mouth to question Antinous sharply, but without warning, his friend's eyes snapped open. Omir sucked in a startled breath at the sight. Where once before, his eyes had been a cerulean blue, they now burned gold. His friend and chief's gasp for air echoed through the chamber as a clap of thunder. Then before their shocked and disbelieving eyes, the golden irises changed, slowly fading back to the familiar blue that Omir knew so well. He sucked in a greedy breath of his own as he watched the chest of his friend rise and fall, rise and fall in succession.

Barely able to comprehend what he was seeing before him, Omir leaned down and locked eyes with those of his old friend which appeared unfocused but slowly lit up in recognition.

"Omir?" queried the slightly older wizard, his voice hoarse, and stiff with long disuse. "Wh-Where...where am...I?"

But Omir could only bite back a sob, tears trickling down his face as he clasped hands once more with his Grove Master...his dear colleague...and friend. He was elated as after a moment, he felt his hand being squeezed by his friend.

"You old dog," he choked out gruffly, "it's about time that you've stopped lazing about. You've been sorely missed, my old friend."

Triumph filled his breast as his friend and soul brother Charlus Ambrosius Llewellyn-Potter, Lord Regnant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, and Master of the Darkwood Grove gazed steadily at him, Adam's apple bobbing as he took in his tear-stained visage.

"_Omir_..." he breathed, "tell me...tell me _everything_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few facts to share for readers concerning the central character(s) of this fic:
> 
> This story will focus on three individuals. The first individual is Charlus Potter. The second is of course, Harry Potter. The third...will be revealed at a later time.
> 
> This story adheres to the canon timeline for the most part, at least as far as the events of the canon are concerned, but a few dates will be changed around at times for the convenience of the story. This story will take place before the start of Harry's schooling and will establish Charlus as a counterweight to the political influence and magical power held by Albus Dumbledore. 
> 
> Since there really isn't much information about Charlus Potter outside of his name and the fact that he married a daughter of the House of Black, much of his backstory will be based off of shameless speculation on my part. He is the head of the House of Potter rather than Harry Potter's grandfather Fleamont up until the Potter family's untimely death. Since there is no known birthdate for Charlus, I've elected to make him the elder brother of Fleamont Potter and his senior by over fifteen years. 
> 
> This story will incorporate significant elements from the book series co-authored by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris, the Adept. That being the case, it will not showcase most of the characters, but some descriptions of characters in the book will be the basis for my own original characters that I will be introducing in future chapters.
> 
> This Prologue is from the perspective of one of Charlus Potter's closest friends, but have no fears, while my OMC will have a decent role in this, this will focus on the Potter family. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this beginning to this story! Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> ^_^
> 
> * Cainte- another name for Dian Cecht, chief healer among the Tuatha De Danann and the grandfather of the hero Lugh, after whom the harvest festival Lughnasadh is named.


End file.
